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Dozen  New  Poems 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ly 
Edgar  A.  Quest 


A    DOZEN 
NEW    POEMS 

by 
EDGAR   A.  GUEST 


With 

by 
FRANK     X.    LEYENDECKER 

W.    T.    B  E  N  D  A 
HARVEY    EMRICH 

and 
M.    L.    BOWER 


THE    REILLY    &    LEE    CO. 
Chicago 


Copyright,  1920, 
by 

THE  REILLY  &  LEE  Co. 

Illustrations  Copyrighted,  1920, 

by  The  International  Magazine  Company 

and  reproduced  by  special 

arrangement  with 
the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine 


PS 


-  THE    GRATE    FIRE       /' 

I'M  SORRY  for  a  fellow  if  he  cannot  look  and  see 

In  a  grate  fire's  friendly  flaming  all  the  joys  which 

used  to  be. 

If  in  quiet  contemplation  of  a  cheerful  ruddy  blaze, 
He  sees  nothing  there  recalling  all  his  happy  yesterdays, 
Then  his  mind  is  dead  to  fancy  and  his  life  is  bleak 

and  bare, 
And  he's  doomed  to  walk  the   highways  that  are 

always  thick  with  care. 

When  the  logs  are  dry  as  tinder  and  they  crackle  with 

the  heat, 
And  the  sparks,  like  merry  children,  come  a-dancing 

round  my  feet, 
In  the  cold,  long  nights  of  autumn  I  can  sit  before  the 

blaze 

And  watch  a  panorama  born  of  all  my  yesterdays. 
I  can  leave  the  present  burdens  and  that  moment's  bit 

of  woe, 
And  claim  once  more  the  gladness  of  the  bygone  long- 

ago. 

There  are  no  absent  faces  in  the  grate-fire's  merry 

throng; 
No  hands  in  death  are  folded,  and  no  lips  are  stilled  to 

song. 
All  the  friends  who  were  are  living  —  like  the  sparks 

that  fly  about; 

[7] 


1048461 


They  come  romping  out  to  greet  me  with  the  same 
old  merry  shout, 

Till  it  seems  to  me  I'm  playing  once  again  on  boy- 
hood's stage, 

Where  there's  no  such  thing  as  sorrow  and  there's  no 
such  thing  as  age. 

I  can  be  the  care-free  schoolboy!  I  can  play  the  lover, 
too! 

I  can  walk  through  Maytime  orchards  with  the  old 
sweetheart  I  knew, 

I  can  dream  the  glad  dreams  over,  greet  the  old  familiar 
friends 

In  a  land  where  there's  no  parting  and  the  laughter 
never  ends. 

All  the  gladness  life  has  given  from  a  grate  fire  I  re- 
claim, 

And  I'm  sorry  for  the  fellow  who  can  only  see  the  flame. 


from  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  K  o  A 


WHEN  MOTHER'S 
SEWING  BUTTONS  ON 

WHEN  mother's  sewing  buttons  on 
Their  little  garments,  one  by  one, 
I  settle  down  contented  there 
And  watch  her  in  her  rocking  chair. 
She's  at  the  task  she  likes  the  best — 
Each  little  waist  and  undervest 
She  fondles  in  a  mother's  way, 
And  notes  each  sign  of  sturdy  play 
And  shakes  her  head  and  says  to  me: 
"I  wonder  how  this  came  to  be?" 

There's  something  in  her  patient  eyes, 
As  in  and  out  her  needle  flies, 
Which  seems  to  tell  the  joy  she  takes 
In  every  little  stitch  she  makes. 
An  hour  of  peace  has  settled  down; 
Hushed  is  the  clamor  of  the  town; 
And  even  I  am  different  then, 
For  I  forsake  the  ways  of  men 
And  see  about  the  garments  there 
Bright  visions  of  a  happy  pair. 

Buttons  are  closely  linked  to  joy. 
Each  little  girl  and  little  boy 
Who  dares  to  climb  the  garden  fence 
Buys  that  delight  at  their  expense; 

[10] 


Buttons  are  childhood's  tattle  tales — 
Swifter  than  telegrams  or  mails 
They  fly  to  tell  of  moments  glad 
That  little  boys  and  girls  have  had; 
And  mother  reads  the  stories  there 
From  every  vacant  space  and  tear. 

She  sweetly  smiles  and  says  to  me: 

"How  sturdy  they  have  grown  to  be! 

It  keeps  me  busy  to  repair 

The  shirts  and  things  they  have  to  wear." 

I  chuckle  as  I  watch  her  sew, 

For  joy  has  set  the  room  aglow, 

And  in  the  picture  I  can  see 

The  strength  which  means  so  much  to  me. 

The  scene  is  good  to  look  upon 

When  mother's  sewing  buttons  on. 


THE    HOMELY    MAN 

LOOKS  as  though  a  cyclone  hit  him — 
Can't  buy  clothes  that  seem  to  fit  him; 
An'  his  cheeks  are  rough  like  leather, 
Made  for  standin'  any  weather. 
Outwards  he  wuz  fashioned  plainly, 
Loose  o'  joint  an'  blamed  ungainly, 
But  I'd  give  a  lot  if  I'd 
Been  prepared  so  fine  inside. 

Best  thing  I  can  tell  you  of  him 
Is  the  way  the  children  love  him. 
Now  an'  then  I  get  to  thinkin' 
He  is  much  like  old  Abe  Lincoln  — 
Homely  like  a  gargoyle  graven, 
An'  looks  worse  when  he's  unshaven ; 
But  I'd  take  his  ugly  phiz 
Jes'  to  have  a  heart  like  his. 

I  ain't  oversentimental, 
But  old  Blake  is  so  blamed  gentle 
An'  so  thoughtful-like  of  others 
He  reminds  us  of  our  mothers. 
Rough  roads  he  is  always  smoothin', 
An'  his  way  is,  oh,  so  soothin' 
That  he  takes  away  the  sting 
When  your  heart  is  sorrowing. 

[12] 


From  a  painting  by  M.  L.  BOWER 


THE    HOMELY    MAN    (Concluded) 

Children  gather  round  about  him 
Like  they  can't  get  on  without  him; 
An'  the  old  depend  upon  him, 
Pilin'  all  their  burdens  on  him, 
Like  as  though  the  thing  that  grieves  'em 
Has  been  lifted  when  he  leaves  'em. 
Homely?  That  can't  be  denied, 
But  he's  glorious  inside. 


THE    BETTER  JOB 

IF  I  were  running  a  fa&ory 
I'd  stick  up  a  sign  for  all  to  see, 
I'd  print  it  large  and  I'd  nail  it  high 
On  every  wall  that  the  men  walked  by, 
And  I'd  have  it  carry  this  sentence  clear: 
"The  Better  Job  that  you  want  is  here!'* 

It's  the  common  trait  of  the  human  race 
To  pack  up  and  roam  from  place  to  place; 
Men  have  done  it  for  ages  and  do  it  now, 
Seeking  to  better  themselves  somehow; 
They  quit  their  posts  and  their  tools  they  drop 
For  a  better  job  in  another  shop. 

It  may  be  I'm  wrong,  but  I  hold  to  this — 
That  somewhere  something  must  be  amiss 
When  a  man  worth  while  must  move  away 
For  the  better  job  with  the  better  pay; 
And  something  is  false  in  our  own  renown 
When  men  can  think  of  a  better  town. 

So  if  I  were  running  a  factory 
I'd  stick  up  this  sign  for  all  to  see, 
Which  never  an  eye  in  the  place  could  miss : 
"There  isn't  a  better  town  than  this; 

* 

You  need  not  go  wandering,  far  or  near — 
The  Better  Job  that  you  want  is  here!" 

['5] 


LIFE 

LIFE  is  a  jest; 

Take  the  delight  of  it. 
Laughter  is  best; 

Sing  through  the  night  of  it. 
Swiftly  the  tear 

And  the  hurt  and  the  ache  of  it 
Find  us  down  here; 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 

Life  is  a  song; 

Let  us  dance  to  the  thrill  of  it. 
Griefs  hours  are  long, 

And  cold  is  the  chill  of  it. 
Joy  is  man's  need; 

Let  us  smile  for  the  sake  of  it. 
This  be  our  creed: 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 

Life  is  a  soul; 

The  virtue  and  vice  of  it. 
Strife  for  a  goal, 

And  man's  strength  is  the  price  of  it. 
Your  life  and  mine, 

The  bare  bread  and  the  cake  of  it, 
End  in  this  line: 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 


[16] 


From  a  charcoal  drawing  ^yWT.  BENDA 


THE    CHIP 
v       ON    YOUR    SHOULDER 

YOU'LL  LEARN  when  you're  older,  that  chip  on  your 
shoulder 

Which  you  dare  other  boys  to  upset 
And  stand  up  and  fight  for,  and  struggle  and  smite  for, 

Has  caused  you  much  pain  and  regret. 
When  Time,  life's  adviser,  has  made  you  much  wiser, 

You  won't  be  so  quick  with  the  blow; 
You  won't  be  so  willing  to  fight  for  a  shilling, 

And  change  a  good  friend  to  a  foe. 

You  won't  be  a  sticker  for  trifles,  and  bicker 

And  quarrel  for  nothing  at  all; 
You'll  grow  to  be  kinder,  more  thoughtful,  and  blinder 

To  faults  which  are  petty  and  small. 
You  won't  take  the  trouble  your  two  fists  to  double 

When  some  one  your  pride  may  offend; 
When  with  rage  now  you  bristle  you'll  smile  or  you'll 
whistle, 

And  keep  the  good  will  of  a  friend. 

You'll  learn  when  you're  older,  that  chip  on  your 
shoulder 

Which  proudly  you  battle  to  guard, 
Has  frequently  shamed  you  and  often  defamed  you, 

And  left  you  a  record  that's  marred! 

[18] 


When  you've  grown  calm  and  steady,  you  won't  be  so 

ready 

To  fight  for  a  difference  that's  small — 
For  you'll  know,  when  you're  older,  that  chip  on  your 

shoulder 
Is  only  a  chip  after  all. 


['9] 


THE   JOYS   WE    MISS 

THERE  never  comes  a  lonely  day  but  what  we  miss  the 

laughing  ways 
Of  those  who  used  to  walk  with  us  through  all  our 

happy  yesterdays. 
We  seldom  miss  the  earthly  great — the  famous  men 

that  life  has  known — 
But,  as  the  years  go  racing  by,  we  miss  the  friends  we 

used  to  own. 

The  chair  wherein  he  used  to  sit  recalls  the  kindly 

father  true, 
For,  oh,  so  filled  with  fun  he  was,  and,  oh,  so  very  much 

he  knew! 
And  as  we  face  the  problems  grave  with  which  the 

years  of  life  are  filled, 
We  miss  the  hand  which  guided  us  and  miss  the  voice 

forever  stilled. 

We  little  guessed  how  much  he  did  to  smooth  our  path- 
way day  by  day, 

How  much  of  joy  he  brought  to  us,  how  much  of  care 
he  brushed  away; 

But  now  that  we  must  treat!  alone  the  thoroughfare  of 
life,  we  find 

How  many  burdens  we  were  spared  by  him  who  was 
so  brave  and  kind. 


[20] 


From  a  painting  ^M.L.BoWER 


THE    JOYS    WE    MISS    (Concluded) 

Death  robs  the  living,  not  the  dead — they  sweetly  sleep 

whose  tasks  are  done; 
But  we  are  weaker  than  before  who  still  must  live  and 

labor  on. 
For  when  come  care  and  grief  to  us,  and  heavy  burdens 

bring  us  woe, 
We  miss  the  smiling,  helpful  friends  on  whom  we  leaned 

long  years  ago. 

We  miss  the  happy,  tender  ways  of  those  who  brought 

us  mirth  and  cheer: 
We  never  gather  round  the  hearth  but  what  we  wish 

our  friends  were  near; 
For  peace  is  born  of  simple  things — a  kindly  word,  a 

good-night  kiss, 
The  prattle  of  a  babe,  and  love — these  are  the  vanished 

joys  we  miss. 


[22] 


THE   CALL 

I  MUST  get  out  to  the  woods  again,  to  the  whispering 

trees  and  the  birds  aswing, 
Away  from  the  haunts  of  pale-faced  men,  to  the  spaces 

wide  where  strength  is  king; 
I  must  get  out  where  the  skies  are  blue  and  the  air  is 

clean  and  the  rest  is  sweet, 
Out  where  there's  never  a  task  to  do  or  a  goal  to  reach 

or  a  foe  to  meet. 

I  must  get  out  on  the  trails  once  more  that  wind  through 
shadowy  haunts  and  cool, 

Away  from  the  presence  of  wall  and  door,  and  see  my- 
self in  a  crystal  pool; 

I  must  get  out  with  the  silent  things,  where  neither 
laughter  nor  hate  is  heard, 

Where  malice  never  the  humblest  stings  and  no  one 
is  hurt  by  a  spoken  word. 

Oh,  I've  heard  the  call  of  the  tall  white  pine,  and  heard 

the  call  of  the  running  brook; 
I'm  tired  of  the  tasks  which  each  day  are  mine,  I'm 

weary  of  reading  a  printed  book; 
I  want  to  get  out  of  the  din  and  strife,  the  clang  and 

clamor  of  turning  wheel, 
And  walk  for  a  day  where  life  is  life,  and  the  joys  are 

true  and  the  pictures  real. 


THE    COMMON    TOUCH 

I  WOULD  not  be  too  wise —  so  very  wise 

That  I  must  sneer  at  simple  songs  and  creeds, 

And  let  the  glare  of  wisdom  blind  my  eyes 
To  humble  people  and  their  humble  needs. 

I  would  not  care  to  climb  so  high  that  I 

Could  never  hear  the  children  at  their  play, 

Could  only  see  the  people  passing  by, 

Yet  never  hear  the  cheering  words  they  say. 

I  would  not  know  too  much — too  much  to  smile, 
At  trivial  errors  of  the  heart  and  hand, 

Nor  be  too  proud  to  play  the  friend  the  while, 
And  cease  to  help  and  know  and  understand. 

I  would  not  care  to  sit  upon  a  throne, 

Or  build  my  house  upon  a  mountain-top, 

Where  I  must  dwell  in  glory  all  alone 

And  never  friend  come  in  or  poor  man  stop. 

God  grant  that  I  may  live  upon  this  earth 

And  face  the  tasks  which  every  morning  brings, 

And  never  lose  the  glory  and  the  worth 
Of  humble  service  and  the  simple  things. 


[24] 


From  a  painting  by  HARVEY  EMRICH 


GOLF    PRIDE 

As  A  GOLFER  I'm  not  one  who  cops  the  money, 

I  shall  always  be  a  member  of  the  dubs; 
There  are  times  my  style  is  positively  funny, 

I  am  awkward  in  my  handling  of  the  clubs; 
I  am  not  a  skillful  golfer,  nor  a  plucky, 

But  this  about  myself  I  proudly  say — 
When  I  win  a  hole  by  freaky  stroke  or  lucky, 

I  never  claim  I  played  the  shot  that  way. 

There  are  times,  despite  my  blundering  behavior, 

When  fortune  seems  to  follow  at  my  heels; 
Now  and  then  I  toil  supremely  in  her  favor, 

She  lets  me  pull  the  rankest  sort  of  steals; 
She'll  give  to  me  the  friendliest  assistance, 

I'll  jump  a  ditch  at  times  when  I  should  not, 
I'll  top  the  ball  and  get  a  lot  of  distance — 

But  I  don't  claim  that's  how  I  played  the  shot. 

I've  hooked  a  ball  when  just  that  hook  I  needed, 

And  wondered  how  I  ever  turned  the  trick; 
I've  thanked  my  luck  for  what  a  friendly  tree  did, 

Although  my  fortune  made  my  rival  sick; 
Sometimes  my  shots  are  just  as  I  had  planned 'em, 

The  sort  of  shots  which  usually  I  play, 
But  when  up  to  the  cup  I  chance  to  land  'em, 

I  never  claim  I  played  'em  just  that  way. 


[26] 


There's  little  in  my  game  that  will  commend  me, 

I'm  not  a  shark  who  shoots  the  course  in  par; 
I  need  good  fortune  often  to  befriend  me, 

I  have  my  faults  and  know  just  what  they  are; 
I  play  golf  in  a  desperate  do -or- die  way, 

And  into  traps  and  trouble  oft  I  stray; 
But  when  by  chance  the  breaks  are  coming  my  way, 

I  do  not  claim  I  played  the  shots  that  way. 


LIVING 

THE  miser  thinks  he's  living  when  he's  hoarding  up 

his  gold; 
The  soldier  calls  it  living  when  he's  doing  something 

bold; 

The  sailor  thinks  it  living  to  be  tossed  upon  the  sea, 
And  upon  this  very  subject  no  two  men  of  us  agree. 
But  I  hold  to  the  opinion,  as  I  walk  my  way  along, 
That  living's  made  of  laughter  and  good-fellowship  and 

song. 

I  wouldn't  call  it  living  to  be  always  seeking  gold, 
To  bank  all  the  present  gladness  for  the  days  when  I'll 

be  old. 
I  wouldn't  call  it  living  to  spend  all  my  strength  for 

fame, 
And  forego  the  many  pleasures  which  today  are  mine 

to  claim. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  splendor  of  the  world  set  out  to 

roam, 
And  forsake  my  laughing  children  and  the  peace  I  know 

at  home. 

Oh,  the  thing  that  I  call  living  isn't  gold  or  fame  at 

all; 
It's  fellowship   and   sunshine,  and  it's   roses  by  the 

wall; 
It's  evenings  glad  with  music  and  a  hearth-fire  that's 

ablaze, 

[28] 


From  a  painting  by  FRANK  X.  LEYENDECKER 


LIVING    (Concluded) 

And  the  joys  which  come  to  mortals  in  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent ways; 

It  is  laughter  and  contentment  and  the  struggle  for  a 
goal; 

It  is  everything  that's  needful  in  the  shaping  of  a  soul! 


[30] 


THE    FELLOWSHIP 
OF    BOOKS 

I  CARE  not  who  the  man  may  be, 

Nor  how  his  tasks  may  fret  him, 
Nor  where  he  fares,  nor  how  his  cares 

And  troubles  may  beset  him, 
If  books  have  won  the  love  of  him, 

Whatever  fortune  hands  him, 
He'll  always  own,  when  he's  alone, 

A  friend  who  understands  him. 

Though  other  friends  may  come  and  go, 

And  some  may  stoop  to  treason, 
His  books  remain,  through  loss  or  gain, 

And  season  after  season 
The  faithful  friends  for  every  mood, 

His  joy  and  sorrow  sharing; 
For  old  time's  sake,  they'll  lighter  make 

The  burdens  he  is  bearing. 

Oh,  he  has  counsel  at  his  side, 

And  wisdom  for  his  duty, 
And  laughter  gay  for  hours  of  play 

And  tenderness  and  beauty, 
And  fellowship  divinely  rare, 

True  friends  who  never  doubt  him, 
Unchanging  love,  and  God  above, 

Who  keeps  good  books  about  him. 


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